


color in your romance

by fated_addiction



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're really good at talking in circles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	color in your romance

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff, fluff, and more fluff. For E. Current manga story line spoilers apply. As well as fluff. A lot of fluff.

The hard part is when this starts, really starts, and Orihime, who stares at her with big, big eyes, trembling just _slightly_ and says, softly, “you _really_ don’t like your birthday, Kuchiki-san?”

Rukia can see Ichigo over her friend’s shoulder.

Asshole.

 

-

 

She is late. On purpose. She’s sure he knows. But, whatever.

There’s no doubt in her mind too that there are a million, multi-colored streamers covering the Kurosaki kitchen and that, in the morning, Yuzu is going to guilt trip her into chocolate pancakes ( _rabbit-shaped_ chocolate pancakes) while Karin is going to run some kind of interference between her and Isshin.

But it’s the bedroom window that is open and she climbs, easily, forgoing the front door. It might be habit. It be just one of those things; there is a lot about Ichigo that she has to relearn, or return to getting used to.

Her feet touch the carpet. Shirayuki hums at her hip.

“You’re late.”

She blinks.

“What?”

A laugh shifts in the dark. There is a low light; the closet doors are open.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re such a creep.”

His feet are the first to peek out of the door. The laces of his sneakers are untied. His leather jacket drapes over his legs.

“Your gigai is at Urahara’s.”

“It’s been at Urahara’s for awhile,” she says dryly.

“I know,” he shoots back. “Funny thing.”

“Are you _mad_ at me?” she shoots, and it slips, it actually _slips_ , and her teeth sink into her lip as she stays in the middle of her room. Her robes feel sticky. Her fingers flex over the hilt of her blade.

There’s a rustle, and then a flicker, and she watches as he, half-hidden still by the shadows, pushing himself to stand. The jacket crumbles to the floor.

“You can’t be mad at me,” she mutters, looking away.

He snorts. “Let’s go to Urahara’s.”

“It’s hot,” she complains.

He’s in front of her, then. His fingers curl at her cheek. It’s abrupt. She’s startled. Her eyes are wide and she tilts her chin at him, almost defiantly.

It’s been months since Seireitei and its graceless fall to invaders, and now weeks, weeks of captains and their clumsy healing, the collective, uncomfortable admission that many of them rely too heavily on their bankai and less on the unpredictable structure of a fight. The invasion of Soul Society stands as a terrifying acknowledgment for them all, but Rukia, like Renji and a few others, never thought to find small comforts in the odd habits that still stick to them from Inuzuri.

She knows exactly why Ichigo is like this.

“Let’s go,” he says, knuckles grazing her chin. 

She says nothing and follows.

 

-

 

He was not the one that found her.

( - she imagines that if he did, if he was the one that stumbled onto her fight, there would be a bigger, _bloodier_ outcome than what was, than the scar that now creeps from the collar of her uniform, that feels warmer when Shirayuki is much cooler to touch; she knew the exact risk she took, standing as she did, and the memories of Zangestu’s own presence, sinking into the back of her mind, still startle and unnerve her, but they will not talk about that.)

“We’re taking a detour,” she announces flatly, watching as he starts to lead her into the park, not around the corner as known.

“Yep.” He turns onto the balls of his heels, hands digging into his pockets. The jacket remains forgotten in his room. “Yuzu’s making breakfast in the morning – dad made a huge, stupid speech on your behalf. Everybody gets that you were busy.”

Rukia blushes.

“You can’t make me feel _guilty_.”

“I’m not,” Ichigo murmurs.

She catches it. His eyes are brighter. He’s standing underneath one of the lamp posts; there’s a shift in color, his hands leaving the pockets of his jeans, and she’s counting, you know, amber to gold and then _gold_ , as his clothes sort of melt away into robes and Zangestu is cued at his hip. A sigh slips. Her amusement pushes at the corner of her mouth.

“Ichigo,” she says.

He shrugs. He takes a step forward. Her hand slides over the hilt at her hip.

“Rukia,” he mocks. Zangestu’s blade drops to the grass and he draws a crude line between the two of them. Vaguely, she wonders how many hours are left in the day – two more hours of her birthday, three maybe?

She knows exactly what this is though.

Ichigo sighs lazily. “You’re such a pain in the ass,” he tells her.

He charges forth. She pivots on her heel, ducking back as he swings and sheathes his zanpakutō. He lands softly in the grass, somewhere behind her, and she finds herself staring at the lamp post.

“So you’re mad at me,” she says.

“A little.”

Her hair covers her eyes. “I hate my birthday,” she says

“You don’t have to,” he replies. “I mean, I hate mine too – but it’s really all about the mechanics. And my dad.” His nose wrinkles. “Mostly, dad.”

She scoffs and juts back, avoiding the pulse of his fist to her arm. She keeps her back to him, her sandals digging into the ground.

“You’re getting lazy,” she retorts.

“Ah, sensei.” The drawl of his voice makes Rukia flush. Her hand remains on her zanpakutō’s hilt. The fabric is cooling. “You know I’m holding back,” he teases.

Her nose wrinkles. “If I weren’t so tired,” she says. “I would _actually_ hit you really, really hard, moron.”

It’s been more than too long, the last time they’ve actually spared. She was a terrible teacher, he was an even worse student; she’s sure their collective impatience may or may not have set a few things on fire in the park. But those were good days too, easier days, when it was more about incidentals and tiny steps, and less about the larger plot they were all unwillingly part of.

She tries to think about what she knows now. Sometimes she did sense the something _bigger_ in him. It would be the quick flex of his fist over his blade. Or how he would almost impulsively catch her off guard; they moved differently then, not clumsy, but almost as if their bodies were more willing to acknowledge what they were without incident or thought.

“I already planned to apologized to Yuzu in the morning.”

Her voice is soft. He comes again and she bows forward, grabbing the hilt with her fist and launching it back. It hits his chest hard and Shirayuki laughs, delighted in her head. Rukia spins and sinks back into the dark of their spot.

She isn’t running. He isn’t chasing her. There are heavy trees. The skyline is reflexive; she sees the blinking lights of the buildings, the waviness and the sounds of the distant traffic. There is comfort in this kind of noise.

“And I don’t want to talk about hollows,” she adds. It’s duties and responsibilities these days, between the body count and the illness of her captain; smaller habits like patrol seem more exhausting than it needs to be.

“We don’t have to talk about hollows,” he calls. His amusement is clear. His voice echoes among the trees and her hand finds itself around Shirayuki’s hilt again. “Although, he’s being a bitch right now.”

Rukia rolls her eyes. “He’s just as much as a princess as _you_.”

A branch snaps.

He comes at her again.

 

-

 

There are two rules that she now lives by.

The first is an old one, the kind that makes her just as ageless as she feels, the kind that continues to let Inuzuri crawl into her skin and bones and remind her just who she _is_ and why she fights just as hard, just as fast, and just as intelligently as she does. Rukia knows that survival is completely dependent and compliant on this rule. It has no name, or face; Ichigo is the only that is close enough to see it.

The second is less than stellar, or complex – given the enemy and the day. She’s done some things that she’s not proud of and has let people in that she never meant to. It makes her irreplaceably human and she’s come to accept it as it makes her compassion thrive and grow and become just as sharp as everything else in her. It scares her, how important this rule has become, and how things like being late to her own birthday _day_ has made everything so complicated at the end.

The point is this: she had seventeen months and then a few minutes, then of course, there was the unshaping of her daily structure as they all understood it.

She knows how close she is to saying the words.

 

-

 

“We can’t do this all night!”

Her voice drops. His elbow connects with the back of her shoulder. She hisses and ducks underneath him.

“You used to make me,” he says, breathlessly. There is laughter in his voice.

She fists her fingers through his robes. She jerks him forward. He stumbles into an actual laugh; her knee hits his arm.

“Ugh.” Her hair is slick against her throat. She grabs his wrist, pinning it back. “You’re sloppy and you’re _cocky_ -” her eyes glitter dangerously, “ – didn’t I teach you better than _that_?”

He laughs and swings his leg underneath her. She’s startled back. Neither one of them draw their blades, not yet. She does pull at Shirayuki. Her mouth turns and she digs the blade, sheath and all, deep into the ground. 

The tips of her fingers start to cool faster. Her eyes brighten. A breeze begins to pick up too. His head cocks to the side and he leans against Zangestu, watching her and waiting too.

“I promised I wouldn’t ask,” he says, he _admits_ , and it’s sort of odd, how they’re here again. She wonders why they come face to face with these conversations. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they get to just that _point_ , but never far enough.

Sometimes she feels like Ichigo is waiting for her still.

She looks away.

“I know.” She’s quiet. She tucks her hair behind her ear. Ice begins to sink into the ground. She feels it at her heels, then gathering at her legs.

“But I want to,” he says too.

“Ichigo –”

She stops herself at his eyes again, too sharp to really see anything but. He takes a step forward and then another. The ice is starting to rise and twist, spinning around the two of them. Shirayuki is silent now, calm at her stand in the grass, still ready to come at her calm.

Ichigo’s fingers touch her cheek. Her hand presses against his chest.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs.

She swallows.

“You can’t be stupid about this either.” Her fingers curl at his chest. Ichigo ignores the movement. “I mean – ” He’s sort of grim when he smiles, half-sullen, half-weighted. She never looks away. “I’m usually stupid about these things. Okay, I’m too stupid about things.”

“Ichigo – ”

Then he stops. Abrupt and almost shy, he rubs the back of his head.

“Can we be better about this?” he asks, and she looks up at him, surprised. His mouth purses and his gaze is clear again, watching her.

“Better – ” she swallows and her hands start to warm again. “Do you really want to talk about this?” she asks.

This is a million different scenes, a million different goodbyes and moments, she thinks, actual moments where they were almost there but not _quite_. She doesn’t want to think about the length of time, or the fact that every time she leaves again, back to duties and responsibilities, she always takes that one, long pause – if he would really ask, she knows she would probably find ways to stay.

He looks away for a moment. His hand cups her face. His palm is flushed over her skin. He draws her into him. Zangestu presses against her belly.

“I think we’ve had this conversation before,” he mumbles.

Her teeth sink into her lip. She says nothing.

“Remember when, you know, you were – ”

“Brainwashed?” she supplies sharply.

His mouth twists. “Something like that.” His voice remains distant. “I’m thinking about when I found you after. I think about it a lot.”

“Past lives,” she murmurs. Her fingers pick at his robe. “Ichigo, don’t be stupid,” she says too.

“Moron, there you go.” He rolls his eyes.

“I’ve already explained – ”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, and rolls his eyes again, “and we _both_ know how well you and I both fit into those rules and circumstances and whatever bullshit they feed you on the other side.”

Her eyes narrow. “Okay, genius. What’s your _point_?”

He pushes her lightly. She smacks his chest hard. He sort of smirks too and she’s not entirely sure where this is going. There’s just no time to blink.

His mouth brushes over hers.

“I think you always hated your birthday,” he murmurs over her mouth, and her mind just goes blank, her mouth parting underneath his.

He tastes sweet, which shouldn’t surprise her at all. His lips are sticky and warm and she sweeps her tongue, between his teeth. Chocolate pancakes, she thinks. _Asshole_ , she thinks too. It burns through her though, and his fingers are twisting through the hair at the nape of her neck. 

She doesn’t know how he’s kissing her or why he’s kissing her – or really, if she’s honest, why it doesn’t matter. Her hands are sudden fists in his hair and then she’s kissing him back just as fiercely.

It’s about taste. “You stole some of the pancakes,” she accuses, breathless even. He smiles against her mouth, biting at her lip. “She made pancakes for me, _dumbass_.”

“I don’t know anything,” he throws back.

His hands move her hair, along her back, and then the curve of her hip and over her thigh. Her skin burns. It picks at her nerves. Her head is swimming and it’s all moving too fast and she should just _care_. But she doesn’t.

It’s how he pulls back then too. His fingers brush over her lips. She watches him, half-dazed under her lashes. He steals another kiss, softer.

“This has nothing to do with my birthday,” she mumbles.

Her cheeks are hot.

“Eh,” he says into a shrug. She catches the tail end of a smile – something sharp, something steady and something she’s not entirely ready for just yet. It’s there though, waiting.

His fingers curl in her hair and he tugs.

“It’s not your only one,” he says.

 

-

 

Yuzu’s pancakes sit warm on a plate right in front of her. Dawn’s peaking into the kitchen windows and she sits with Ichigo, legs draped across her lap with yesterday’s dress and a fork in her hand. 

Isshin will make too much of a deal, one of them says. Rukia doesn’t remember; there is a small pile of gifts to the side and Orihime’s seems to tower over the rest, wrapped in bright cellophane and too many ribbons. She can count the others and pick them out. But Ichigo’s hand slides over her knee, resting just at her thigh.

He watches her. She’s looking away, absent with a smile.

Sometime soon, she thinks.


End file.
